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kbstories · 4 years

Text

impression//expression

"It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone."

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Post-Kamino Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Kiri Has A Dog Because I Said So

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Content warning for anxiety attacks and discussions thereof. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Kirishima comes to sunlight shining on his face and an armful of Bakugou.

It’s not a sudden jolt of consciousness that alerts him of this. His brain comes online one synapse at a time with how all-around cozy he is, bundled up in comfortably warm covers with Bakugou’s head nestled in the crook of his neck, his arm wrapped loosely around Kirishima’s waist. In actuality, Kirishima slept so well it’s legitimately hard to get himself to wake up beyond lazily squinting an eye against that bright glare.

Which is why his first move is to pull the blanket up higher and snuggle closer to his Bakugou-shaped pillow. Bakugou, for his part, breathes something between a mumble and a sigh and slumbers on.

Out like a light. He’s onto something there, Kirishima muses. For a while, he lets himself drift to the calm two-step beat of Bakugou’s heart keeping time against his chest, the gentle tickle of Bakugou’s hair under his chin. Blissful oblivion nips at the edges of his mind; his body can’t quite get there, though, that pesky bit of awareness clinging to existence despite his best efforts.

Urgh, fine.

Kirishima blinks with a little more purpose behind it. His vision is blurred from overall drowsiness and the murky half-dark the blanket provides. Bakugou is easy to make out regardless, face slack and close enough Kirishima can see the minute shift of blonde lashes as he snoozes. It’s the residue redness around his eyes that nudges Kirishima’s brain to wonder and think and remember–

Blue fire. Unread texts. The hospital, Kamino Ward, All Might. Bakugou.

All at once, the sight of Bakugou passed out in his arms is anything but a peaceful one. It’s intimate in a way Kirishima suddenly feels uncomfortable with, not because he doesn’t like it – in his educated opinion, any day starting with cuddling is good by default – but because Bakugou is the least touch-y person he knows and this is crossing so many lines. All the lines.

Lines drawn by unspoken rules and implicit understandings Kirishima learned by sheer trial and error. All those other times Bakugou let his guard down around him seem like peanuts compared to this.

But… Bakugou is resting. Catching up on untold amounts of missed sleep, looking far more relaxed than Kirishima could’ve hoped for. Perhaps it would’ve been better to ensure he makes it to his own bed instead of sharing the pull-out couch; perhaps Kirishima shouldn’t have pushed when things are so fresh. Kirishima’s hands ache to move from between Bakugou’s shoulders yet letting him go feels wrong, too.

It was far too easy, last time. To sit there and bicker in class while Bakugou faded from view, mere miles away.

The dread roiling within him is familiar, as are the maybes and what-ifs that accompany it. It returns like an old friend, the thought of losing him to people who mistake his violence for villainy, who disregard the good shining at Bakugou’s very core in favor of the hurt his hands can cause. The brightest star in the sky, burning, desperate to be seen, to be acknowledged.

It makes Kirishima restless, this feeling – like the air is growing thin and the ground is about to collapse beneath their feet, and it’s up to Kirishima to get them out of there. His blood thrums with the need to fight tooth and nail to keep whatever is causing it away, to shield Bakugou until the shaking stops and the debris settles.

Kirishima has failed Bakugou once already. Not again, never again–

“Think any harder an’ your brain’s gonna melt.”

Kirishima’s heart nearly stops, then jumps into overdrive. A hesitant glance proves that, yup, that’s Bakugou stirring, right there. Bleary-eyed and still far too soft around the edges but awake. Kirishima isn’t ready for this.

He’s also dead. Super dead. Buried-so-deep-nobody-will-ever-find-his-body dead.

He swallows, any sort of greeting escaping his mind except a quiet, “Oh.”

Bakugou yawns and rubs at his eye, a gesture made clumsy with sleepiness. “Mm?” He props himself up, a hand laid flat on Kirishima’s chest. “Calm down, will ya? Your heart’s goin’ like crazy.”

There are no words to describe how impossible that is right now. “Um”, Kirishima says intelligently, and: “Sorry.” A little sheepish, since he can’t exactly help what his heart does (or his brain, for that matter).

He is on the verge of panicking, Kirishima notes dimly. That realization alone does little to chase away the half-formulated doubts threatening to choke him, that inkling of fear that’s on the brink of spiraling out of control. A moment later, he has to consciously unclench his hardened hands from the back of Bakugou’s shirt, which–

Ah. That’s what woke him up.

“Shit. S-sorry, I–”

There’s a frown on Bakugou’s face as he sits up. “Nothing’s goin’ on”, he tells him, calm where Kirishima can’t be. “’s just my room.” Just as deliberate, the covers are pushed aside to allow cool air to flow into their private niche of the world. Everything’s so bright, so–

“Kiri? Hey. Give me your hands.”

It takes considerable effort to focus on Bakugou’s voice. “Whuh?”

“Your hands. Like this.”

Bakugou holds out his own, palm-up. Kirishima does the same, staring blankly at his trembling, rock-hewn fingers. When Bakugou holds his palm, it’s with a touch Kirishima can barely feel. “Focus on this”, a low murmur followed by pressure to the meat of Kirishima’s thumb, faint despite the bones in Bakugou’s wrist showing from the effort. Bakugou slides it upwards and to the webbing connecting to his index, marginally more giving.

“You’re okay. Just breathe. Focus, right here.”

The touch shifts again, down to his wrist. Kirishima lets him do whatever, watching with a detached sort of fascination as his quirk relents. Bakugou’s thumb brushes over the spot where Kirishima’s veins are becoming visible again, the skin there thin and delicate. He digs in, an inch or two from his hand.

It’s a little rougher than before. Not unpleasant, just unexpected, and Kirishima’s fingers twitch. Bakugou’s lips press together. He does it again, notably gentler. “You with me?”

Kirishima hums. The question registers a moment later and he nods for good measure. “Yeah, I– It helps. This.”

“Mh.” Bakugou gestures for his other arm; he starts from his wrist and goes up to his hand this time, eyes on what he’s doing. “Pressure points are useful shit. You got one here”, a pinch to that spot between thumb and index, “and here”, a tap to his wrist. “Works best if it’s someone else doing it but you can, too.”

That sounds vaguely familiar. Perhaps something that came up the last time he googled it? Panic attacks used to be much more of an thing for Kirishima – before he hair-dyed and bench-pressed Red Riot into something more real, more than a distant daydream. More than a scared kid with shitty self-esteem.

(Life’s been manageable, since. Chaotic and distressing in a host of other ways as it swings back and forth between joy and disaster like fate’s cruelest pendulum and actually, it might be a bit of a miracle it took this long for his anxiety to make a comeback.)

Memorizing any new info is beyond Kirishima right now; he strong-arms his braincells to hold onto the term ‘pressure point’, at least. And if Bakugou is sharing, Kirishima figures it’s only fair to share back.

“The one I know is like, deep breathing? And, um. Talking through it. Counting things you can sense. What you see, hear, smell, and so on. It’s just…”

“Hard to do that by yourself, yeah.”

By this point, Bakugou is just brushing his thumb along the lines on Kirishima’s palm and that feels really nice, too. The image of his hands clawing up worn fabric is hard to shake off, though, making Kirishima’s stomach churn with guilt.

“Sorry, man. For waking you up, I mean. And freaking out on you. I didn’t hurt you, right? You’d tell me if I hurt you.”

It’s meant to come out with confidence, because Kirishima trusts Bakugou. It’s trusting himself that's the problem, sometimes.

A groan, long-suffering. “How many times…” Bakugou gives him a look caught between annoyance and fondness. “Kiri. First off, after yesterday, I have no fucking room to complain when it comes to– That. It happens, it sucks, it’s fine. It’s not your fault or whatever. Secondly–”

Kirishima almost chuckles at how pointed that one word is. He shelves the comment on his tongue for after the Bakugou Lecture he’s being treated to.

“I fell asleep on you. Which, my bad but also fuck you, I was tired and some fucking sap wanted to talk feelings at screw-this-AM. There’re no… scratches or anything, and you make an okay pillow for being a literal rock. So, we’re even.”

Kirishima does laugh at that. “I’m not a rock! Get your facts straight, bro.”

“And thirdly”, Bakugou continues with a smirk, “I just turned your hands into bombs, you dumb fucking rock. Either you let me spark it off you or I’m kicking you out to wash it off before that shit goes boom.”

“Spark off?” Head tilting, Kirishima looks at his hands. He doesn’t see anything but if Bakugou says there’s nitro, there’s definitely nitro. “Wait, is that what you do when you…?”

The gesture Bakugou does to let rapid-fire explosions flicker in his palms is easily copied, Kirishima has seen him do it countless times. The other rolls his eyes.

“Yeah. I got tired of getting it all over the place and wearing gloves twenty-four-seven is uncomfortable as fuck, I tried. Plus, burning shit is fun.”

Huh. Kirishima holds out his hands once more, a swift grin on his lips. “Sounds cool. One sparking off, please!”

Bakugou slaps them away immediately. “Use your quirk, dipshit. Or d’you actually wanna get ‘em blown to pieces?”

“Oh. Right.”

Everything under Kirishima’s elbow hardens in an instant. This time, Bakugou huffs under his breath and takes them between his palms. “Here goes.”

A flash, the familiar crackle of firecracker explosions – Kirishima braced himself for it to hurt a little despite Bakugou’s insane control over his quirk, and he does feel it. It tickles, mostly, the sensation of tiny bursts of heat rolling from his fingertips to his wrist a strangely soothing one.

Bakugou looks over his hands when he’s done, the tightness between his brows easing. Then he glances up to Kirishima’s face and sees the smile that’s broad enough to make his cheeks ache. The frown comes back tenfold.

“No.”

“Dude, yes. Do that again.”

“Nope. Fuck you, Shitty Hair, no.”

“You said it’s fun two seconds ago! Checkmate, I win.”

“Kirishima.”

Kirishima snickers until Bakugou’s palm presses against his cheek. It’s basically second nature to harden in time for the explosion to go by harmlessly and oh, this is so going to become a thing.

“It’s a thing now”, he informs Bakugou. “Can it be like our handshake? We totally need a handshake. What kind of besties are we withou–” A gasp. “Oh, oh, we can do the thing after training, too! I won’t even need to wash my hands. It’s fun and useful.”

Bakugou’s face twists. “What the hell? That’s fucking disgusting.” In one fluid movement, he’s out of their blanket nest and stomping off the couch. It would be intimidating… if not for his wrinkled shirt and sleep-mussed hair making it kind of adorable, instead.

“I’m done talking to you.”

“Aww, bro!”

Kirishima crawls half-way over the armrest only to catch a throw pillow – hah! – to the face. Another thud follows, turning out to be Kirishima’s phone tossed from across the room.

“Even mooched off my charger, ugh. You got a million missed messages. Take care of ‘em before your moms call the cops, bro.”

Bakugou's tone is practically drenched in sarcasm but Kirishima doesn’t care, he beams. Bakugou called him his bro and there’re simply no take-backs allowed on a declaration like that.

💪🏻 Kirishima Power 💪🏻

Mama K: Honey, are you awake yet? (received 10:10)

Mama K: Your mom and I are ready to come pick you up whenever. (received 11:20)

Mom: also let us know when we can start hunting your teachers for sport (received 11:22)

Mama K: No murder until our son is back, dear. (received 11:22)

Mom: mhmm sure (received 11:23)

aaaa morning!! (sent 11:38)

oh shit it’s almost noon hhhh (sent 11:38)

Mom: language kiddo (received 11:38)

oh crap** sry (sent 11:38)

Mama K: Welcome back! ❤️ (received 11:39)

hey mama ❤️ (sent 11:39)

ok so picking up is good!! we’re eating breakfast rn (sent 11:42)

well more like lunch 🙈 (sent 11:42)

Mama K: Okay! Now or later? (received 11:43)

ah, mitsuki is saying you two should swing by for tea so maybe in an hour? (sent 11:47)

and that the teachers are actually coming here?? later?? idk why tho (sent 11:48)

aside from, y’know (sent 11:48)

Mama K: Yeah 🙁 (received 11:50)

Mom: how’s katsuki holding up? (received 11:50)

umm ok. kinda. he looks tired as heck tbh and i’m not sure how happy he is about the teacher thing (sent 11:55)

it’s all a bit oof (sent 11:56)

Mom: hmm. anything we can do to help? (received 12:01)

def give him his space (sent 12:03)

and maybe don’t kill aizawa @Mom looking at u haha (sent 12:03)

Mom: bummer (received 12:06)

actually… one more thing? 👀 (sent 12:10)

Mama K: You want us to bring the big guns, huh? (received 12:12)

After the hellos and introductions and obligatory fussing over Kirishima – Mama gives him her usual forehead kiss, expertly avoiding his freshly-spiked hair, while Mom wraps him in her patented rib-pulverizing hug – the parents go inside, leaving Bakugou and Kirishima in the yard with…

“Riot.”

Kirishima grins and nods. He heaves the hundred pounds of tail-wagging excitement into a more comfortable position against his chest, big paws coming to rest on his shoulders. “Yeah! Isn’t he the cutest?”

“Your dog is called Riot.”

“Yup!”

Bakugou openly stares at Riot’s drooling smile. After a painfully long pause, he goes: “Okay.”

If all it took to make Bakugou speechless was an Akita with an unexpected (?) name, Kirishima would’ve introduced him to Riot ages ago. As it is, it’s taking all his willpower not to crack up at Bakugou’s expression. It’s like watching one of those ancient Windows computers suffer a system crash so severe even the task manager stops functioning.

Arms full of dog, Kirishima nudges him with his elbow. Reboot initialized. “But?”

Bakugou shakes himself a little. He gestures to Riot, or perhaps to Kirishima, or both? It’s hard to tell. “But… just, like… Why?”

Priceless. Kirishima silently vows to cherish this rarest of blessings in his memories for eternity. It won’t do to rescue Bakugou only to give him an aneurism the very next day. Setting Riot down, Kirishima pats orange-white hair off his borrowed clothes. The Akita immediately trots over to Bakugou to say hi.

“I got Riot when I was really small, like six-ish? Seven? Something like that.”

Bakugou crouches and holds out his hand for a curious black nose to sniff. Kirishima sits down next to them, watching Riot take a deep whiff and promptly sneeze. Bakugou mutters something about explosives and dumb dog, be careful. Despite the forced casualness on Bakugou’s part, it’s clear he’s not used to being around dogs.

Still, he’s trying. Kirishima’s grin tempers to a soft, close-lipped smile at the sight.

“Back then, I only had a vague idea of who I’d wanna be. As a hero, y’know?” He reaches over to scratch Riot’s favorite spot at the base of his curled tail. It starts wagging immediately. “I was tossing around a few names and somehow Riot stuck. So, I tried it out on him and by the time I realized ‘Yup, that’s the one!’, he didn’t wanna listen to anything else.”

Riot pants at him, mouth wide. Kirishima boops his wet nose. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ about you. Stubborn dog.”

“You’re telling me your hero name got stolen”, Bakugou summarizes drily. “By a dog. When you were six.”

Figures that’s what Bakugou would get out of this. Kirishima snorts and shrugs.

“I guess? Riot – the hero, not the dog – existed way before the whole ‘Red’ stuff came along, ‘cause like… Crimson was out there, I knew he existed, but his philosophy was a bit beyond me. He wasn’t my hero yet, you feel me?”

Bakugou hums. “You weren’t a hero nerd yet. Just a space nerd.”

That startles a laugh out of Kirishima. He knocks his shoulder against Bakugou’s. “Exactly! See, you get me.”

“Shut up, nerd”, comes the predictable reply with a rougher knock back.

Eventually, Bakugou joins him in the grass, his knees propped up and elbows resting on them. Riot makes himself comfortable as well, sprawling on his side with his head resting on Bakugou’s thigh. The full might of pleading canine eyes look upwards. Bakugou squints. “The fuck.”

“He wants scritches”, Kirishima translates readily.

A beat, then Bakugou carefully rubs the knuckles of his index and middle finger in-between the white spots on Riot’s face. Riot huffs a content sigh and melts into the gentle touch.

“Hm. He’s soft.”

“Right? As a puppy, he was the softest and tiniest thing you can imagine. Wait, I might have pics on my phone. Gimme a sec.”

A bit of searching, and Kirishima taps on an old photo of him as a kid, pointy teeth flashed in an impossibly big smile as he hugs a chubby ball of brown fluff close to his face. Mama had dug it up from some dusty family album in a bout of nostalgia after Kirishima broke the news he’d been accepted to U.A.

“Behold: Baby Riot.”

Kirishima shows it to Bakugou. Only after Bakugou’s brows rise does he remember he’s probably never seen him with his natural hair color. Whoops.

Studying the photo for a moment, Bakugou continues to pet the adult version of Riot absent-mindedly. “He looks like a potato.”

“Wha–” Kirishima checks the photo to make sure it’s the same one. “Bakugou. It’s a puppy. It’s like, scientifically proven puppies are the one and only road to world peace. Hello? Nobody hates on a puppy, especially this one.”

Whatever face he’s making has Bakugou smirking, eyes sharp under a brow raised in challenge. “It’s got a weird shape and is brown. Potato.”

Kirishima whines. “Why are you like this? Riot, don’t listen to him, man. You’re the best.”

Riot has fallen asleep, oblivious to the outrageous claims being made in his presence. It’s better that way – the good, old boy deserves better than this slander.

Bakugou is looking down to the snoring dog, too, and something about it must soften even a prickly hedgehog heart like his because he sighs and grumbles: “He’s kinda cool. Maybe.”

Gotcha.

Kirishima pumps his fist in sweet, sweet victory. Nobody, not even the eternally grumpy, can resist the Kirishimas’ secret weapon.

On the way back home, Kirishima messes around with his camera until he’s managed a half-decent selfie of himself and Riot sharing the backseat of his parents’ car. A brief moment is spent hovering over his chat with Bakugou.

It’s the first time he’s opened it since– Since.

Baku 💣💥

[riot(s).jpg] (sent 16:58)

thanks for hosting me man 🐶 (sent 16:58)

dorm life, here we come!! (sent 16:59)

The tension in Kirishima’s chest is knocked loose as the ticks turn blue without delay, closing the gap to the ones from the lodge like it never existed. It unwinds entirely when, a handful of minutes later, Bakugou replies.

Baku 💣💥

idiot (received 17:05)

see you soon (received 17:05)

>>Chapter 6

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #kiribaku #bnha fanfiction #i wanted some fluff so i gave kiri a dog #this fic is also on AO3!!#reblogs appreciated c:#my stuff

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sendmyresignation · 3 years

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this is mostly for my archive/organization but these are the song descriptions and answers from the hesitant alien quiz with their correct match if you’re interested

The Bureau:

Description- The world is purple-black stagelight darkness, the steady drumbeat ringer of your cellphone echoing in the enclosing corridor like a heart beating through the walls made of flesh. You can see red ahead, emergency lights beckoning you closer as you sweat panic. The roar of the crowd and the ringing of the phone all around you grows louder, becomes one in the same- you have no choice but to answer the call

Answer- What a wonderful beginning, a beautiful stepping stone. You are on the verge of some great change and it scares you how everything keeps moving forever and forever, on and on. But there are always constants if you look closely at yourself- hold on to the people you hold dear and the small things you love because there is love everywhere- in the creations, the steam of family recipes realized, the dial tones, and in between the pages of the bedside table books. Now that you've looked back, jump frequencies and step out into the sunshine of this new morning.

Action Cat:

Description- You're standing in a light red room, in front of an old television set with static moving across the screen. Suddenly, it rolls out of the box like high tide, surrounding you in the water-wave of pulse and sound. In the middle of the stream you hear a voice, barely heard over the rushing noise. You open your palm and feel the weigh of someone left behind. You open your mouth and you say sorry to the ghost reaching out. In response, the enveloping blanket of fuzz falls away like dominoes

Answer- A reconciliation through the fuzz. You are guilty of something, but don't know how to make up for it, how to patch together an adequate apology for the damage. Don't let your own desire to martyr yourself get in the way of telling the truth. Don't let the fear stop you from feeling love again. Don't let your desire to escape your past mistakes make you forget the good you found there. Reach out and gather beauty wherever you find it- because we all deserve it.

No Shows:

Description- The club is saturated in jolly rancher blues and the walls are shaking with the sound of the bass. Everything is muffled, even standing right next to the stage but when you're up behind that microphone it doesn't matter if no one can hear what you have to say as long as the feedback you hear float through your head is truthful. The walls close in until the only person you're playing for is yourself and your loved ones and the blue walls and here you find where you were meant to be

Answer- An ode to finding your place. In the past, you haven't really felt like you fit in anywhere, that there is no space meant for you to occupy. You've had to fight tooth and nail for what you have and some days you give up and stew in your loneliness. But life is not a jenga board, you are not a puzzle piece looking for a home. You already belong to yourself and you've already made space for the people who matter. There is a purpose in what you have, so find satisfaction here, in who you are and the things you have to share.

Brother:

Description- It's raining- heavy droplets and reflective lights. You shove your way backstage, through the alley door, and enter a revolving space of orange, green, and red like a tilt-a-whirl. But even when you feel like falling over and eating the thick, growing tedrals of the shag carpet, the room is too crowded and the arms of friends and lovers and strangers hold you up

Answer- A song about holding on to drowning hands. You are grasping at whoever will keep you from crashing again, tight white-knuckles digging into shoulders and purple bruised fingernails from the squeezing- violent touches that ground you in the crisp pains of reality you are lucky to have people that inspire such passion for living in your survival response. But you're scared they're going to fall into the same rock bottom you're crawling out of, that your hands are sinking ships pulling them down with you. This is not true- you should never be afraid to ask for help, should always keep a strong grip on the ones you love and you'll all have anchors in the storm.

Millions:

Description- The floor is cool blue metal and you are a passenger on it's surface. Everything is spinning and spinning and spinning- a dizzying kaleidoscope of bright, beautiful lights. But suddenly the lights burn and the surface boils and you break apart, frying in the wonderous sunshine

Answer- A goodbye letter mailed to the wreckage. You are afraid to stop the train car you've boarded, afraid that there is no way to take a different path while the engine runs out of fuel. It's ok to jump ship sometimes. It's ok to quit when the heavy weight of yourself cannot be dragged further. You are not beholden by anyone else but your own livelihood. Say goodbye to the life you lead and apologize later, because you can't be sorry if you're dead.

Zero Zero:

Description- You're in the street- the shatter-crackle of glass under your feet as you make your way through the hazy path of the nightlife the only sound. Everything is quiet but there are nameless faces all around you. They keep coming up to you, silent, passing trinkets and toys and bloody organs into your hands as small talk. You want to go home but the neon lights pull you closer like a tractor beam until you reach the back door of the club. The air is suffocating but the smog is the only oxygen your body is familar with. Maybe if you hold your breath you can turn back and escape

Answer- An accusation against the watchful eye. You are tired of the way people perceive you, are tug-of-warring between wanting the purity of old connections you had back and wanting anonymity moving forward. Fitting yourself into past puzzle pieces while you morph and change is a fool's errand. You can't resurrect the past exact, you can only walk away and hope to recreate yourself anew.

Juarez:

Description- The world rushes past you in a streak of purple-orange desert - in a van, on a train, running on two feet. It never stops, you never stop and you can't even look down at your hands- they're too blurry. You don't know who you are in this inbetween space but maybe you'll reach your destination soon

Answer- The road trip song for the self-journey. You are at a crossroads, your whole life laid out in many different paths and no clear direction where to go. How can you decide what's next when you don't know yourself when you can't recognize your own desires? Just know, if you run fast and far enough you'll burn away the costume graphed to your skin and find the truth lodged underneath your foggy epidermis. Just know that each stage in the process of metamorphosis is still valuable. Is still you. Do not turn back halfway through discovery.

Drugstore Perfume:

Description- Face pressed against the glass of a subway car. The outside is tinged pink, like the glass is tinted and everything you see is just slightly wrong. It's subtle and nauseating but your eyes have long since adjusted to the strain. You're just waiting for your stop to arrive

Answer- A quiet call for running away. You are either stuck somewhere you are trying desperately to escape from or you've already made tire tracks so deep they can still see the scars of your leaving. No matter the small amount of solace you've found here, there is a blood deep desire to take a chance on what could be- otherwise you'll suffocate on the fumes of hometown glory. Just remember the smell never washes out so it's ok to catch a whiff and find a moment of comfort. That doesn't mean you were wrong to get out.

Get the Gang Back Together:

Description- Smoky bars and billards rooms clouded in red and green lighting. There's the leftover remains of a high school reunion crowding inside, getting a drink and getting swallowed in the fuzzy sound of the live band. You can't hear what anyone says but you think everyone is staring at you with jewel-green eyes and wide smirks

Answer- An elegy to old towns, old friends, and older gossip. You are paranoid about the way other people see you, afraid of the judgment strangers whisper when you're not around. But the urge to get out is too strong, it leaves you with no time to explain yourself. Sometimes, you have to craft the perfect alibi for your own disappearance. Do not allow yourself to be bogged down by falsehood, embrace the half-truths told about you in the dark. Become the boogeyman in other people's stories- it won't matter when you're free. After all, the only people who know the truth are the ones leaving too- hold onto that.

How It’s Going to Be:

Description- The figure of Puff the Magic Dragon flying through bright blue skies, weaving between flying pirate ships and landing on smooth, green hillsides

Answer- A storyteller's guide to getting up. You are a fairytale crafter, a person with stories leaking out of your head but you've always waited for early detonation. You'll give the world everything stop-blocking the flow and let the river-water drown you. You just didn't notice you grew gills along the way. Life is not easy when you can't control your own endings. Living cannot be contained in chapter headings anymore and nothing is certain. But the love that keeps finding you is too big and too boring and too beautiful to be a fable. Embrace the spaces unmentioned, the path unknown to you, and live in the margins.

Maya the Psychic:

Description- Bright purple light flashing like a beacon in the nighttime sky is reflecting on the surface of speeding cars, giving off stardust and gold sparks that passerbys cannot see. You run out into the street, collecting the magic reminants before they disappear

Answer- Song interference as a telepathic embrace. You are a person plagued by your own brain, the incessant rattling of your own thoughts drowning everything out. You scare yourselves sometimes with the disruptions, feel too useless to operate your own internal hard drive. But do not be afraid, you are not a monster and you are not alone. There are scores of clairvoyants with feedback filling their heads. You can hear them if you focus. So tune into the good noise, find your frequency, and never fly back down to earth.

Television All the Time:

Description- A bright plastic barbie doll house with a sad little boy inside. He's watching the rain batter the windows and flood the living room

Answer- A track for the dreamers stuck in the illumination of the television set. You are caught between what you want and what the world has placed just out of reach, dissatisfied with the imitation life you've tripped blindly into. Sometimes leaving is the only way to take back control. Sometimes falling on your face is the only way to feel anything but the empty fog. Sometimes real freedom is admitting you're not happy. There are good things all around you if you open your eyes, don't miss them because your eyes are trained on a mirage.

#i think i'm going to do something with these.... so i wanted to have them all together #i have something in mind but. idk. it might take a while....#hesitant alien #my posts #writing library

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nalgenewhore · 4 years

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A Promise Is A Promise ~ Chapter Four

In a world in which Elide Lochan can only remember that she is someone’s prey and they will stop at nothing to find her, trusting Lorcan Salvaterre, a man whose past is as cloudy as hers is quite possibly the most sane thing she could do.

TW: Panic attack, PTSD due to sexual abuse, blood, gore, past trauma, death

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He couldn’t tell what time it was when he finally woke, his head pounding the moment his eyes fell on the gray sky behind the window.

Though it was cloudy, the sun hiding today it seemed, it was still light outside and he lurched out of bed, staggering to rip the curtains closed, the flimsy linen drapes barely blocking the outside from his little corner of the world.

Lorcan couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this sick after a night out, always able to bounce back like nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t spent the hours drowning his demons until he could forget that they swam and would find him wherever.

Every step out of his room had his head feeling like someone was striking a hammer on his brain, hammering out metal on his shattered mind. He felt her hands still on him, every second, every fall of the hammer had him remembering a new night, a new way she made to label him as hers. Nausea rolled through him at the sight of the bite mark on his hip, at the memory flashing behind it, her sheets like silken midnight but cold like the frigid depths of his dark god’s realm.

Her lips, tracing over every harsh contour that made his body, his muscles trembling at the restraint it took to stay there and not rip her away from him, to not snarl in her face, to not tear her throat out with his teeth.

It felt like someone was holding a brand to every mark she had ever made, searing into his flesh so that no matter how far he went, there was still a collar around his neck and shackles around his wrists, ones that she could yank on at any moment.

Lorcan threaded his hands through his hair, pulling on it and using the sting of his force to bring him back from the brink of another flashback. His heart raced, his breathing erratic and chest heaving as he stumbled towards the sink, only slightly feeling guilty at the dishes piled in the sink and on the counter as he stretched his arm up to grab a new glass, filling it to the rim with cool water, the liquid cutting back the cotton in his head, lessening the blow of the hammer by a fraction.

He raked his hand down his face, scrubbing his eyes as he stumbled to the couch, throwing himself onto it, swearing when the sudden movement sent a sharp burst of pain lancing through his head. He threw his arm over his face, screwing his eyes tightly shut as he breathed past the queasiness and let out the breath he had been holding for far too long, sitting up slowly to avoid setting off another wave of nausea. He sighed as he opened his laptop, clicking on the new email Vernon Lochan had sent them, more photos of the girl, Elide.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on where he had seen her before, something about her eyes so familiar but not quite what he was looking for.

The first picture he opened was one of her face and he did a double take, sure that he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was.

No, no, it couldn’t be her.

The one they called Anneith incarnate.

But it was.

Her eyes, he’d recognize them anywhere, the flatness of her dark, dark irises. The only time he’d felt fear in his life was around her, the pure ice that flowed through her veins, no matter the job they had to do.

He’d seen her cut up men so viciously it nearly made him sick just thinking about it. He’d seen her kill with no hesitation, no mercy as she cut men and women down like stalks of wheat. She had never spoken in all the time he had spent with her, spent doing things he only ever wanted to forget.

He had never seen her entire face, always hidden behind a mask that covered the bottom half of her face and she had never spoken, just a shell of a girl that had taken too many lives and dealt death like she held every soul in the palm of her blood soaked hands.

The only glimpse of human he had ever witnessed was after a particularly gruesome and almost surgical execution, he had come out of the bloodstained tiled room to find her slumped against the wall, her angular eyes filled with an emotion so elemental and pure, he believed her to be human as she stared at her dirty hands, nails caked with blood.

The sound of the heavy iron door closing had her snapping her head up and shooting to her feet, moving past him like a shadow down the hallway.

Lorcan felt dread settle into his stomach, knowing why the price over her head was so high and why Maeve had sent him to find her.

He was the best and even still, now that he knew who she was, he was doubtful they’d ever find her again.

She had been kept as someone’s pet for far too long and he knew that she would fight tooth and nail to keep whatever freedom she had won, through blood and death and by selling her soul to whoever would take it, even if that was ruination itself. She would ruin herself, for any scrap of liberty she could find.

The heavy silence of the apartment was sliced through by the shrill sound of his phone ringing and he picked it up, knowing who was calling. He began hyperventilating, his skin clammy while his hands began to tremble, a voice in his head hissing that he was weak and pathetic.

What kind of man lets someone do this to him?

How do you look at yourself in the mirror, knowing what she’s done to you?

How do you live with that weight?

He picked up the call and before he could speak, her voice was pouring like oil into his ear, cold and suffocating.

“Lorcan, dear. How are you?”

He gritted his teeth, keeping his breaths quiet as he fought through this. “Fine.”

Maeve laughed but there was no trace of joy one would expect from the sound, no, she would not know joy if it dropped dead at her feet, she had never known it, he knew that much. The noise that left her throat was a cacophony of something that was definitely not a laugh. “Oh, darling, it’s ok. You’ll be home soon enough.”

He cringed at her calling that house home because it had never and would never be home to him.

Home was the little cabin he had shared with his mother and sister. His entire life had been that cabin, nestled in the heart of the White Fang Mountains, the forests around them filled with other families like them.

It was always warm and cozy and just big enough for the three of them.

His entire life had been in that cabin until that fateful day he had come home from school in Anielle to find the front door ripped off its hinges as it hung drunkenly. His stomach had dropped and he had thrown his backpack to the ground, sprinting through the threshold to find every surface completely drenched in dark red liquid, his eyes falling on the bodies of his mother and baby sister, the little girl barely even seven years old as she was strung up, her body so mutilated he had vomited before dropping to his knees, the blood soaking through his pants, sticky and cold.

A woman he had never recognized had walked up beside him, smiling at him as if he couldn’t see the blood of his family on her pale hands and as though her pants weren’t soaked in it. He had been so broken, so defeated he hadn’t tried to fight her, everything he had lived for gone.

He hadn’t fought when she took him away from the little cabin to her manor in Rifthold, far too big and cold for a house.

He hadn’t fought when she forced weapons into his hands until he was the weapon and then he was able to avenge their deaths, imagining that every body he cut, every person he slaughtered had her immortal coldness and beauty.

“Lorcan, are you even listening to me?”

He snapped out of whatever he had been held captive in, “What.”

Maeve sighed, “Is it the distance? Oh, my love, are you missing me?”

He suppressed the gag he felt at her words, swallowing past it as he ground out, “Yes.”

“Liar. You couldn’t wait to get away, could you, Lorcan?” She crooned, “Is it hard, not being able to do the things you wish you could to me? The things I did to your mother? You poor, poor baby sister?”

Lorcan nearly snapped, the thread of self control close to breaking when she said that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughed again, the sound setting him on edge. “You’re a terrible liar, darling. It’s alright, soon, so soon, you’ll be here, right next to me in bed, you miss that don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re keeping to yourself, yes? No playing on the job, my love, you know that.”

“The job is my only priority.”

Maeve sighed, “You’re no fun. I’m getting bored and so is dear Vernon. Have you lost your touch?”

At that he finally snapped, snarling, “You know who she is and you expect me to find her in three months? She’s a killer and has been let loose. She could be anywhere in the world right now.”

She cackled, “So you finally figured it out, did you now? That’s fun, I was beginning to wonder if you would ever. You two always worked so well together, it was such fun watching the two of you break someone, like an art. Vernon says she’s been blessed by Anneith since birth, interesting, no?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Oh, surely it is,” she insisted and he could almost see her, sprawled over her bed, a viper’s smile pulling at her lips as she talked on the phone. She sighed again, “If you can’t find her soon, I might have to find a replacement for you. Maybe you’re worn out now, hmm?”

“I’m fine. I don’t need a replacement. I can find her.”

“Good. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll have to think of an appropriate punishment, won’t I?”

He knew exactly what she meant by punishment and he shut his eyes, pulling away from the memories of past disciplinary actions she had taken against him, each one killing him just a little more, each one chipping at the childlike innocence he still had deep inside him. Lorcan didn’t answer and the only thing that kept him sane as Maeve began listing past measures she had taken against him was his eyes tracing over Elide’s picture, over the face of someone who knew pain like him.

Minutes, hours, maybe even days later, the call ended and as he flung the phone across the room, watching it shatter after it hit the marble countertop and fall to the floor. He slammed the laptop closed, shaking as he stalked into his room and tugged on a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt, not bothering to lock the door as he left and began to run down the streets of the Witch City, moving until he didn’t recognize the names of the streets and stood on an empty bridge, his throat raw as he panted, leaning his forearms over the metal railing, eyes on the river below.

He wouldn’t bring her back.

He couldn’t be her damnation after she had gambled everything to escape.

He would do whatever he could to keep her free.

apiap masterlist ~ masterlist

A/N: if y’all wanna be tagged, lemme know and if you think of any other TW i could put, please please tell me!

tagging: @myfeyrelady @kandasboi @the-regal-warrior @highqueenofelfhame @rhysands-highlady @westofmoon @empire-of-wildfire @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tangledraysofsunshine @ttakeitbacknoww @tswaney17 @dayanna-hatter @lovemollywho @pilesoffriles @thephilosophyofblank @faellyrian-warriors @bat-wing-rhys @velarian-trash @chemicha @th-th-th-thats-all-folks @elorcanforever @littlehoneyybee @rowaelin-cressworth @mis-lil-red @lord-douglas-the-third @acourtofbookworms @ladydippinstone @flowerspringsea @sezkins79 @court-of-fuck-me-daddy @blogdaydreamerblr @over300books @unapologetic-fangirl-4-life

#a promise is a promise #apiap chapter four #elorcan #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #isa writes #nalgenewhore

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hey-have-you-heard · 4 years

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Hey have you heard these 50 songs from 2019

I really enjoyed this last year so going to give it another go for ‘19. I put quite a lot of thought into what actually a ‘song of the year’ for me when I was first constructing and then heavily editing the playlist that came to be my Top 50 of 2019. I think the most important thing is that above all it’s a track that I’m glad exists, sometimes this is because of the songwriting or composition, sometimes the performance, sometimes the lyrical importance and sometimes just because it sparks joy.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6bFJOjL8b8Zc2s5r1oJbsk?si=UJdqSXOTR3SQ8D3IwcmV2g

Explanations for each tracks inclusion below the fold…

100 gecs - 800db cloud 100 gecs channel a mix of Crystal Castles and Sleigh Bells with a Death Grips level appreciation for noise. It’s an absolute rush and that outro is just absurd.

Natalie Evans - Always Be Natalie Evans soft melody and sing song vocals are sublimely sweet on this heartfelt track of lost love, longing and nostalgia.

Petrol Girls - Big Mouth “If you fight back or disagree you’re the one with the fucking problem” this hits home, hard. Big Mouth is a rallying cry to speak out against oppression and discrimination, to raise you’re voice and be heard, not to be controlled.

Charli XCX ft. Lizzo - Blame it on your Love Charli has a midas touch when it comes to pop, combine that with Lizzo who has just about been the most fun thing in music this year and you’ve got a 10/10 banger.

Poppy - BLOODMONEY Poppy’s music just keeps going further down the rabbit hole. Originally playing with blending elements of nu-metal with bubblegum pop, she now seems to have transcended genre altogether to create whatever BLOODMONEY is, it’s absolutely ridiculous and I love it.

Body Hound - Bloom Get on that GROOVE! So proggy it hurts, this track from Body Hound is a technical wonderland of metamorphosing rhythms, gargantuan riffs, and just the tastiest of chord progressions.

Can the Sub_Bass speak - Algiers Word of warning, this is not an easy listen. A freefall tumble through genre and tone accompanies a stream of consciousness monologue full of racism, prejudice and political and artistic critique.

Elohim - Buckets Buckets is an onslaught of trap influences, emotional outbursts and aggressive distortion. I’m a big fan of this sound.

VUKOVI - C.L.A.U.D.I.A I know very little about VUKOVI as a band, but that riff is absolutely massive and this track has been a constant throughout my year on that basis alone.

Show Me The Body - Camp Orchestra Apparently more hardcore bands should use Banjos, because this is a damn good sound. Slowly building from a single bass line this track builds into a powerful demolishing force.

clipping. - Club Down Having thoroughly proven themselves able to do afro-futurist scifi on the Hugo nominated Splendor and Misery, clipping. now turn their considerable talents to horror core and unsurprisingly nail it. Daveed’s flows are tight as ever as he brings to life a decaying city backed by tortured screams.

Dream Nails - Corporate Realness YOU ARE NOT YOUR JOB. WORK IS NOT YOUR LIFE. YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU MUST DO IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. Dream Nails are great and exactly what we need right now.

ControlTop - Covert Contracts This track positively bristles with an anxious energy. A fitting sound for the subject of the information overload we find ourselves locked into everyday.

Cherry Glazerr - Daddi There’s an icy coolness to ‘Daddi’, a disconnected sarcasm that falls away to reveal the anger and torment in the chorus, it’s a masterful bit of emotional storytelling through musical tone.

The Physics House Band - Death Sequence I Listening to Physics House latest release, the Death Sequence EP feels like a physical journey. This opener is a perfect example of this, as you’re plunged straight into a heady and disorienting mix of rhythms and counter-melody’s, the Sax guiding you through the turbulence until you land in a placid midsection, before that bass riff drags you forward through rhythmic breakdowns into an absolutely absurd brain melting saxophony and then it just keeps on going from there…

Witching Waves - Disintegration I saw WW back in the early summer, they were a bassist down so it was just a guitar and drums duo. They started with this track and it was one of the most pure punk things I’ve experienced, drummer/vocalist Emma Wigham bashing the absolute shit out of her kit . A great no-nonsense lo-fi banger.

Lingua Ignota - DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR Another, not particularly easy listen here. DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR is a dark and angry brooding track, building in intensity to release the primal rage, fear and horror of the abused. Its deeply chilling and instantly arresting. This track and the entire CALIGULA album stands as an absolute must listen.

Carly Rae Jepsen ft. Electric Guest - Feels Right I love the instrumentation on this one, those chunky piano chords and screaming guitar lift the track out and make it the highlight of an already great album to me.

Orla Gartland - Figure it out Dialing back the intensity slightly, Orla chronicles the frustrations of having to deal with someone in your life who you’re done with. The choruses burst forth in beautifully fuzzy explosions of noise. That vocal flair at the start of the final chorus is chef kiss.

Battles - Fort Greene Park Battles are at their best when they keep things simple. This is evident on 2019′s Juicy B Crypts which features some incredibly cluttered moments, but this just makes Fort Greene Park stand out all the more. A delightfully spacious piece of math rock, from some of the best in the business.

Dogleg - Fox Boy howdy, do I love me some midwest emo. Catharsis in musical form, it just makes me want to mosh my troubles away like I’m 16 again.

Tørsö - Grab A Shovel Tørsö go hard, I can appreciate that. An absolutely brutal track about the destructive power of depression and self-loathing.

“Pijn & Conjurer playing Curse These Metal Hands” - High Spirits “We were like, are we Pijn and Conjurer, or are we Curse These Metal Hands? I think we’ve settled with ‘we are Pijn and Conjurer playing Curse These Metal Hands’ …whatever that means!“ what it means is one of the most joyously triumphant pieces of metal music I’ve ever heard. Some of the guitar lines in this absolutely soar.

Lizzo - Juice Lizzo has won 2019, her message of self love, acceptance and body positivity has won her both critical and cultural acclaim and permeates her music in a way that makes it impossible to not love.

COLOSSAL SQUID, AK Patterson - Kick Punch Colossal Squid is the name given to Three Trapped Tigers drummer, Adam Betts’ experimental project. After a solo album of percussive wizardry Betts has now teamed with vocalist AK Patterson to give us something else entirely.

Evan Greer - Liberty Is A Statue Evan Greer uses the a folk punk sound to deliver an essay on the damaging influences of cis-normativity and social inequality. Of course I like this one.

Taylor Swift - Lover I wasn’t on board with this song for a fair while, but then I kept listening to it and kept coming back to it because of a roughly 50 second section which ties the track and the whole album together. Yeah, this is on here purely for the bridge, which is just beautiful.

Dodie - Monster Monster is an incredibly well written and delivered study on how perception changes with resentment and it makes me cry.

The Y Axes - Moon Moon is a delightfully dreamy piece of pop that glitters with infectious melodies, it’s lyrics a blissful embracing of cosmic nihilism, need I say more?

Ezra Furman - My Teeth Hurt My teeth hurt is a song about tooth ache, about that pain you carry with you everywhere and can’t get rid of, that ruins your days and and is one hell of a mood. Yeah it’s about gender dysphoria.

Nervus - No Nations Speaking of things being a mood, this track hits the nail squarely on the head.

Cultdreams - Not My Generation "Everyone ignores me Unless I’m on a stage talking Because they put me on a pedestal And pretend I’m just performing“ Lucinda Livingstone calls out the misogyny in our culture with a singular ferocity.

Lil Nas X - Old Town Road If there’s one song that’s dominated 2019 this is it right here. Who ever had the idea of putting that NIN Ghosts sample to a trap beat and cowboying over the top of it is an absolute genius.

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard - Planet B It’s impossible to predict where King Gizzard’s sonic influences are going to take them next I doubt even they know half the time. Whatever they turn their hand to though they do it as if they mastered the sound decades ago Planet B is an all out thrash track with a strong environmental message.

Kesha - Rich, White, Straight Men Okay, I’m about to compare Kesha to John Lennon here but HEAR ME OUT… As ‘Imagine’ asked us to consider a world without conflict or capitalism, Kesha now posits that we should tear up our conceptions of our society based on its formation by a privileged group and imagine what kind of utopia could be built if we gave the underprivileged and minority groups a say.

Allie X - Rings A Bell The chorus here sounds like it could have been off Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories, and I’m all about that sound. Combined with Allie X’s dreamlike vocals make this a certified bop.

Poly-Math - Sensors in Everything Sensors in Everything is a beast of a track spanning over 14 minutes of absurdly dense prog. Having recently enlisted keyboardist Josh Gesner. Polymath make use of the new sounds and textures available to them, at times imitating a sort of Hammond sound not unlike John Lord to the chaotic maelstrom of noise.

Calva Louise - Sleeper Big hooks on this one. Sleeper has a confident swagger to it’s sound which stands apart for the bands previous work. It’s an absolutely huge track.

Slipknot - Solway Firth Slipknot didn’t disappoint after the tease of 2018′s “All Out Life”, following up with an album which blended old and new aspects of their sound to create one of their best to date. Solway Firth is a perfect example of this matching the punishing heaviness of Iowa with the melody driven sound of All Hope Is Gone.

Clt Drp - Speak To My Seeing Clt Drp perform live was one of my highlights of the year. The filthy guitar tones, powerhouse vocals tight as heck drumming and the _grooves. _Absolutely like nothing else I’ve seen. Just an incredible band that deserve so much more recognition.

Black Country, New Road - Sunglasses Black Country, New Road released two tracks this year and now I just want more. Dense wordy lyricism plays off against ever evolving instrumentation to present a raw cut of emotional storytelling.

Her Name Is Calla - Swan Her Name Is Calla are a band that have always been on the edge of my radar, my Dad is very fond of them and saw them live a couple of years ago, but never went back to relisten to any of their stuff, then they started an album with this. I was sold instantly.

black midi - Talking Heads Talking Heads (the band) are an obvious inspiration on this track. Both David Byrne’s vocal style and the Talking Heads penchant for sharp angular melodies are on show here. But given an extra ounce of chaos through Black Midi’s delivery.

Amanda Palmer - The Ride The ride is ten minutes of bundling up all your fears and anxieties of where we are and where we’re going and just, accepting them as part of the ride. Written off the back of a prompt from Amanda asking her fans what they were afraid of right now.

Kim Petras - There Will Be Blood Okay, let’s have some out of season spookiness. Love the squelchy synths on this, there’s a huge amount of energy on this track and with it’s commitment to the horror conceit it makes for a super fun bop.

Kate Nash - Trash Kate Nash’s sound is like bathing pure nostalgia,here she spins the toxic-relationship narrative central to her work to deliver a bigger story about humanity’s, quite literally toxic relationship to our planet.

American Football & Hayley Williams - Uncomfortably Numb The other side of the “midwest emo” coin. A melancholic song built on a soft bed of arpeggiated chords and clean harmonics, Uncomfortably Numb is a heartbreaking track of losing everything and of cycles persisting thorugh generations. Employing the clever metatextual trick of referencing Pink Floyd’s comfortably Numb to mirror the generational similarities.

Glenn Branca - Velvet and Pearls Disclaimer, Glenn Branca was a musical hero of mine, his approach to music and composition being solely responsible for influence a vast number of my favourite bands. Released posthumously, Velvet and Pearls is taken from a live performance by Branca’s ensemble and perfectly captures the sense of sonic disorientation, conjuring aural illusions through an assault of intricately crafted noise. It’s an exhilarating piece that should be played as loud as humanly possible.

Brutus - War The raw emotional strength of Stefanie Manneart’s vocals instantly made me pay attention when I first heard this track. Then the song exploded into a barrage of riffs and breakneck drumming.

Valiant Vermin - Warm Coke Another slice of throwback pop, Valiant Vermin proved with “Online Lover” how much of an ear she has for pop and has proven it once again with Warm Coke. Is a real good bop.

———

Welp there it is, 50(+1) songs, I had to limit myself to one track per artist in the main 50 because according to Spotify I listened to [checks notes] 1082 new artists this year. There are a small handful of tracks I wanted to highlight from the same artists though as they offer something quite different to the tracks in the playlists, so here they are quickly with 3 word descriptions.

Petrol Girls - Skye (dead dog, sad) Amanda Palmer - Voicemail for Jill (Talk about abortion) Ezra Furman - I Wanna be Your Girlfriend (Trans Torch Song) Battles ft Jon Anderson & Prairie WWWW - Sugar Foot (Batshit Prog Insanity) Poppy - Choke (Dark Minimalist Pop) Show Me The Body - Forks and Knives (Anxious nightmare punk) Lingua Ignota - CALIGULA (the whole album.)

———

Closing Statement

Cultdreams - Statement

There has been a shadow over the entertainment industry the latter half of this decade. Whether film, music, TV or video games, the late 2010′s are filled with stories of people coming forward to bravely tell their stories about being abused and manipulated by men in positions of power. The #metoo movement as it’s come to be known has been a powerful force in giving marginalised people a voice and the ability to call out oppressors and in starting the groundwork to root out the misogyny in the seats of power, but this is a battle far from won.

While there are thousands of stories out there I want to focus on one in particular.

In 2016 a number of women spoke out about various forms of abuse by a well-known musician in the punk scene. It’s now over three years later and this group of women are in the midst of a long fought claim of defamation from this musician. If this case goes through it sets a precedent for silencing marginalised voices in the industry. They have been fighting for so long and with no legal aid available for the case they have had to finance their defense from their own pockets.

This is where Solidarity Not Silence comes in. Solidarity not silence is a crowdfunding effort to help take the case to trial without the women bankrupting themselves entirely so that they don’t have to give in to this mans demands. You can read more about Solidarity not Silence and make a donation (if you feel so inclined) here: https://www.crowdjustice.com/case/solidaritynotsilence/

You can also follow them on twitter here https://twitter.com/solnotsilence

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thedrunkendoc · 6 years

Text

The world was so quiet. So blissfully, blessedly quiet. For once in thirty years, it felt like. There was no rest for the wicked, as they said, and Jonesy Dawes felt it. From a screaming bloody birth to shrieking fights in the kitchen, his father’s knuckles bruised into his cheek, to raucous hollering with the men and women who came in and out of his life, his bed, his alleys and inn rooms and that one time in a docked dinghy. It’s hard to see sometimes how frantic a life is when you’re living it; the man with the drill rarely ever hears it.

Thirty years(rounding down--who cares about the change, really?) of fighting tooth and nail and there were years he told himself that it was just to stay alive. Other years, if he really looked at himself, he fought because it felt good and it felt right and he’d stare in the mirror until he saw his father’s face staring back at him, grinning with blood on his teeth. Maybe the fact just was that Jonesy Dawes wasn’t made quite right. Maybe he was missing a few crucial parts that made him work, made all the cogs turn together and the springs spring at once.

It was never a question of whether there was something wrong with him because he always knew that there was. But whether it was a birth defect or an acquired handicap he could never quite tell.

Because the fact was that Jonesy Dawes was inherently contrary. The truth of being at war with oneself is never quite as romantic as women seem to think it is, gazing upon paperbacks bearing men with flowing locks posed up on a seafoam-sprayed rock, shirt ripped open, synopsis labeling him as some rough-around-the-edges troubled soul in need of a good woman to save him. It didn’t usually work like that. Because as much as Jonesy felt overwhelmed by people and social encounters, the silences that let his brain run free were never better. As much as he wanted to be loved he couldn’t help but push people away, couldn’t stop himself sometimes. As sweet as those dreams of retiring by the seaside were, often he felt his hands tremble on the knife as he spilled salty guts and blood onto the dock and he wondered who would see if he just bent down and... tasted them.

Such was the life of Jonesy Dawes. Ever a man with a story to tell, he only shared the good ones, the good parts. He was a man who didn’t know himself-- who thought he did, but in the end there was bound to be more than a few doors left unopened in the hallways of himself. Those ones were always the hardest to open. Instead he fought, constantly, with friend and foe, lover and family. And in the end, he died alone, as he always knew he would.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

The world was so quiet. So blissfully, blessedly quiet. Jonesy didn’t want to open his eyes but that voice... he would know it anywhere. He shivered and peeked slowly. There was a sort of nothingness everywhere. Not dark, but not light either. Just empty of everything. And then a world came rushing at him like a fist to the face and he was sitting at a dying fire in Ashenvale. It was late, almost turning to morning by the look of the sky through the thick, lush tree cover. Alearah Duskgrove sat across from him and added some sticks to the fire, holding back her hair to stoop and blow into the embers.

She looked young. Her face was softer then, all those years ago before hardship made her features like stone, a mountain that moved for no one. A shame, really; she’d been pretty once. Jonesy curled his arms around himself and glanced around the fire. There were empty bottles strewn about, bits of bones from dinner left behind. He could still hear Mozelle’s laughter, smell Meike’s warmed ginger hair as she sat a little too close to him. That tiny tongue of flame flickered with his heartbeat, slow and fragile, only encouraged slightly by Alearah’s puffs of air.

Slowly, she sat up and settled her elbows on her knees. “Well? What are you doing, Jonesy?”

He scoffed. “The fuck am I supposed to know? Why don’t you tell me?” Jonesy lifted his hands, gesturing to the forest that just seemed to hum. No birds, no animals. Just a low hum. “What is this place?”

“Come, now,” she chided with a dubious look, “You know what it is. It’s Ashenvale. We can spend all night sitting here going back and forth but you really haven’t got the time for that, I’m afraid.” The elf pauses, peeking up at the sky. “Well. Not yet.”

“If you’re gonna just be a cryptic ass then we can just sit here quietly. Just answer my questions like a normal fucking person, would you?” He frowned over at her before realizing it, a lump forming in his throat. “Are you dead?”

“Mm. Third time did the trick, it seems.” Alearah straightened gently, exposing the gruesome hole in her gut; the only thing really amiss in the otherwise pleasant, familiar scene.

“Fuck... am I dead?”

Hunkering back down, she fixed him with an apologetic look. A look, but no words. Jonesy dragged a hand down his face, shoulders prickling as if that frazzled anxious sweat were about to start up, but it never did. “... fuck.”

“Yeah.” There the two sat in silence for a while. Jonesy sank back into the grass, landing on some crushed cigarette butts. Death felt so weightless. Pain-free and soft, like staying in bed on a Sunday morning. It took a while before he peered back over at her, realizing now that his sight was equal in both eyes--perfect, even. “We missed you, you know,” he offered gently. “Don’t think they’ll ever forgive you for going off and dying. I know I didn’t.”

“Well, some of us didn’t have a choice in the matter,” explained the elf, patient as anything, though her eyes couldn’t seem to meet his. “You’ve all been doing well. I’m sure that I can claim no credit and I would never deign to, but it makes me incredibly proud to see how well all of you have been doing. Willaude, Vathelia, Coit and Jenny, Aktius, Corthal. I don’t feel that any of you just got a job out of working with me. So many of you were so young, are so young. But this world is hard and cruel. Trying to go at it on your own only makes it harder and each of us needed each other. I believe that. Now look at them.” Smiling fondly, she waved a hand over the fire. The flame grew, just enough for small figures to be seen in the heart; Mozelle, tending wounded soldiers in a packed infirmary. Coit laughing in a bar with faceless strangers, scars bared to the world. Aktius swinging his son up into the air. “Don’t you see?” Alearah peered over at Jonesy, letting him watch the figures swirl about their lives comfortably. “I gave them everything I had and they took everything that they needed. My work was done.”

The rogue sat up slowly. “You didn’t have to die for all of that to happen, Ale. Some of us still needed you.” Idly, he plucked a daisy out of the ground and spun it round and round between his forefinger and thumb, unable to peer across the fire to her gentle, smiling face. “And I’m still here for you. Aren’t I?” Jonesy could feel her fingers brushing over his cheek, though her hands were laced in front of her. His head turned into the gesture like a stray cat starved for affection. “I see you, Jonesy. I see all of you. And I try to guide you as best I can. It isn’t always easy, stubborn mules the lot of you may be.”

“So... is that what we’re doing here? You’re... guiding me off to the next plane, or whatever?” he asked a bit hesitantly. The unknown was frightening, as always. But Alearah didn’t seem bothered by what waited for them, or her circumstance. Granted, it’d been some time. But her response was unexpected. She shook her head and watched him sadly across the fire. “No.” “No? Is this like, limbo? Am I stuck here?” “No.”

Jonesy scrubbed his face quickly. “So what are you doing here?”

The humming began to grow louder, slowly but certainly like the buzz of a beehive in not-so-far distance. Alearah stared up at the sky again a moment before speaking. “Just keeping you from going off too soon. Being a distraction, I suppose. Will you tell the others that I miss them?”

“What? A distraction for what-- Ale, what the fuck is going--”

That dark silence erupted into sound and light, something crashing overhead. The world was tinted green through his lids and his whole right side felt like it was playing host to thousands of insects, inside and out. His eyes snapped open and he gasped roughly for air, choking on a tube.

“He’s back! Where the hell is the medic?!”

A familiar orc stood above him, pulling the tube from his throat while a not-as-familiar Nightborne fussed around his right arm, pulling and jostling but without any pain. Jonesy opened his mouth to croak up at Doshaqa but she wasn’t looking at him. Instead she was yelling back to her extraction crew, men and women rushing around.

“Let’s go! We need to get him to infirm right now!” Jonesy Dawes closed his eyes, exhausted. Between forefinger and thumb he spun a small daisy round and round as the medics rushed him off to surgery.

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